120 Days Overdue!!!
Please Don’t Make Me
Turn This Over To A Collection Agency and started stamping bills. I sat back and did what I always did: added up my debits and credits. If everybody who owed me money paid me, I’d be in fine shape. But my clients were mostly one step above public defender level and the prospects of their paying me weren’t great.
So the collection agency threat was a joke and everybody around town knew it. Pops Mason may once have been a mad dog of a bill collector, but now that he was in his mid-sixties, some of the cunning had gone out of his pursuits. He was blind in his left eye, had rheumatism, gout, and prostate problems, and he never drank fewer than four quarts of Hamm’s per day. He still pinched ladies a lot too. I knew all about his medical problems because he talked about them constantly to anybody who’d listen. He also had a long spiel about not having had a decent erection since he was fifty-three, a fact he blamed largely on the fluoride in the water. It was his contention that the Communists had been foisting fluoride on us as a way of seeing that our population declined, thus making us ripe for a takeover.
The knock was timid.
“Come in.”
She appeared first: Linda Granger, rangy brunette. Her face was a portrait of good clean freckled midwestern carnality. Normally there was a big-kid grin, and the mischief in the blue eyes was lacerating in its promise of fun and frolic. She dressed well too. Her father was a Brit who’d been a pharmacist in Sussex before Adolf consulted his various astrologers and decided to start a world war. He worked here at the pharmacy until Old Man Reeves startled everybody by taking off for Vegas one night with the Widow Harper and getting hitched. The Reeveses now lived in La, from which they dispatched a blizzard of postcards about celebrities they happened to see. They had a running battle about Robert Taylor. Old Man Reeves insisted that Mr. Taylor had false teeth; Widow Harper angrily disagreed.
Anyway, Linda’s father took over the pharmacy ten years ago, redecorated it, hooked up with the Rexall chain, and proceeded to make himself a wealthy and prominent local citizen.
Today, Linda wore a tight green sweater, jeans, bobby socks, and cordovan penny loafers. That sparkle I always associated with her was gone. Her skin was pale, her eyes dulled, their rims red from crying.
Jeff Cronin looked even worse than he had when I fished him out of the booth at Elmer’s Tap the other day and gave him a ride home: wrinkled white button-down shirt and blue trousers, two-day growth of beard, eyes that didn’t seem to focus. One or both of them smelled of tavern.
“She’s kinda loaded,” he said.
“Look who’s talking,” she said.
“It was her idea to come over here, McCain, not mine.”
“He doesn’t give a damn about our marriage, McCain. I do. That’s why I told him we should come.”
I smiled. “I don’t think I’m following this.”
After I jumped up and took the box holding the lie detector off one of the client chairs, I had them sit down.
Cronin said, “You got a beer?”
“I usually keep a quart in my pocket but I wore the wrong suit today.”
“I need a beer.”
“You’ve had enough beer,” she said. “Is this what it’ll be like being married to you?”
“We’re not getting married, remember?
There’s a little matter of you cheating on me.”
Cronin had a quick temper. He was sliding the ammunition in the chamber now.
She looked at me. Pleading. “Did he tell you why he isn’t marrying me?”
“No. I guess he didn’t.”
“Go on, then, tell him.”
“You want him to know so bad, you tell him.”
“No, you. I want you to hear how ridiculous this sounds in 1957.”
For the first time, Cronin looked uncomfortable.
His gaze fell away.
“Go on,” she said.
He said nothing.
She said, “I spent a long night with Chip O’Donlon once when Jeff and I were broken up.”
“I see.” Chip O’Donlon was a client of mine. Which didn’t save him from being an obnoxious idiot. He was a disgrace to dreamboats around the world.
“They went all the way,” Cronin said miserably.
“That’s not true, at least I don’t think it is.”
“She doesn’t remember. She sleeps with a guy and she doesn’t even remember.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t,
McCain. But I wanted to be honest with Jeff.
I wanted him to know everything about me. You know?”
“Honest.” Cronin scoffed. “Some honest.
We break up a couple of days, and she screws Chip O’Donlon.”
“It was a month we were broken up,” she said, “and I’m seventy-five percent sure I didn’t sleep with him.”
“That leaves twenty-five percent,” Cronin said. “And he’s telling everybody he did sleep with her.”
“Gee,” she said, “a math whiz. And he figured it out all by his lonesome.”
“So,” I said, “the problem is that your feelings are hurt that she spent time with O’Donlon?” I tried to sound as if this wasn’t a much bigger problem than having stubbed a toe. “I sure don’t see any reason to call off a marriage because of that.”
“That isn’t the problem,” Cronin said. He made a fist. The knuckles I’d noticed the other day had scabbed over but still looked pretty bad.
“Oh?”
“The problem is that if she did sleep with O’Donlon, then he nailed her before I did.”
“What a great way to put it,” Linda said.
“He nailed me.”
I said. “You mean that the night she spent with O’Donlon she was still-” his-a virgin.”
“Ah.”
“Now you see the problem. She was a virgin the night she went up to his place.” He turned to her and said, with genuine grief, “It’s nothing personal, Linda. It’s just I was raised to believe that a man should always marry a virgin.”
“Maybe I should’ve lied to you.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding miserable again.
“Maybe you should’ve.”
I did the only thing I could think of. I took out the pint of Old Grand Dad from the bottom drawer, set three paper cups on the desk, and poured us each a hard jolt.
Linda teared up drinking hers. Cronin coughed. I felt my sinuses drain. A drinker I’m not.
“I guess I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said to Linda.
“Talk to him.”
“Cronin’s stubborn.”
“He’s also stupid.”
“Quit talking about me like I’m not here.”
“I don’t want to put you on the spot, McCain, but who do you agree with, him or me?”
“Thanks for not putting me on the spot.”
“Well, somebody has to talk some sense into that thick head of his.”
“I agree with you, Linda,” I said.
“Thanks a lot,” Cronin said.
“She was being honest with you, Cronin.
She wanted to get your marriage off to a good start. And now you’re punishing her for it.”
“What if he nailed her?”
“Will you quit using that word?” she snapped.
I said, “Do you love Jeff?”
“Of course I do, McCain. You know that.
I’m crazy about him.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yeah. The bitch.”
“Oh, really nice,” she said.
“You think we could try that again? Do you love her?”
“Yeah. Pretty much I do.”
“Then you should get married and forget all about this.”
His scabbed knuckles came toward me. It looked as if he were slowing a punch in slow motion. “I just want to hit something.”
“That wouldn’t do much good,” she said.
“God, Cronin. Look at her. She’s a wonderful girl and she loves you!”
“Yeah, well, people will know she’s not a virgin when we get married. I don’t have to tell you how the guys’ll be laughing about that for the next twenty years.”